Rev Girl (30 page)

Clover took a deep breath, to get oxygen into her panting lungs, and willed her blistered hands to release the clutch and twist the throttle, to propel her forward. But her fingers were frozen to the bars, screaming in pain, longing for a warm bath and ointment and gauze.

She forced her chest to steady her breathing, shook her lifeless shoulders to dislodge the Grim Reaper's cold hands, told herself that she hadn't come this far, dragged her bike over this many logs and pushed it up this many hills, to quit now. There wasn't much left to go, just this one test, and then a road ride back to Parc Ferme. Tomorrow wouldn't be a problem just an easy trail ride and a few laps around a flat grass track for the final motocross event.

Clover gritted her chattering teeth and forced her hands into action. The front wheel of her 250 lifted off the ground, the still-new back tyre spinning furiously in the deep, water-filled rut. Wet clumps of muddy roost were flying from the back wheel as she shot forward towards the first incline of the slope. She hit the hill straight, at full revs, hoping this was the best way to go. She heard a faint cheer, probably from the timing officials as there were no spectators in sight and she was off. Her eyes fixed on the wall of fog, her mind blocking out everything else.

She shifted to second gear and pulled herself forward as the bike started to climb. Up into third gear, and she was surprised at the traction, even under the river of water. Probably a good thing Ernie had insisted on that new rear tyre. At full throttle now, and the back end started to switch from side to side, losing its footing. But she still broke through the fog, and let out a sigh of relief.

One step down, just a few more to go! Clover thought. C'mon, Clover Canada, you can do it!

She scanned the next step in the hill, looking for a space between the bogged bikes. But it was completely blocked with riders cursing in various languages, reefing on the handlebars of their bikes to try and dislodge them from the deep ruts, their feet slipping in the torrent, some sliding back down to the bottom of the hill. A few spectators and supporters had shimmied down and were pulling at the fronts of bikes, helping the riders to get unstuck.

Clover narrowed her eyes as she spotted ‘TREASURE' on the back of the jersey of a mud-stained, bogged rider. Kerry. If she could just get past her, she would be in second place. The super-fast French girl, Naidene Roux, was still in front after Day 4, with Kerry in second, Clover third. There was even a chance slim, Clover realised, but possible that Madame Roux wouldn't make it up this hill. She could well be one of these stuck riders, or might have even come to grief in the tough trail section where Clover and Kerry had passed a lot of people, without the energy to register each one. Suddenly, Clover was no longer thinking about just finishing this race. Now, she was imagining herself on top of the podium. The new Women's Enduro World Champion. Her dream, a reality.

She gave it a fist-f of throttle, but had to let off, and duck to the side as a rider in front of her accelerated too aggressively, trying to power past Kerry's parked bike. His back tyre had apparently found the only spot of pure traction on the hill, powering forward. The steep incline must've caused the front end to rise into the air, sending the unprepared rider off the back of his bike. He fell, screaming, past Clover, his body armour clipping her arm. His bike flipped down the hill after him.

She only just managed to avoid being taken out herself.

Clover's heart beat deafeningly, her breaths short and shallow, as she frantically searched for a possible line. There was nothing in the middle, all chaos and more of the same on the right-hand side. But there was one area where no riders struggled, off to the far left of the hill, on the very edge of the dense tree line. It looked smooth, just a single water rut. It was maybe enough to get her to the top.

Clover released the clutch and eased the throttle on, careful not to make the same mistake as the rider who'd nearly flipped his bike into her. She edged across the hill, carefully, as if she were riding on ice. The water was rushing down with such force, the ground beneath her so slick and muddy, that she had to summon every fibre of muscle, every ounce of power to keep control over her motorcycle, and keep her tyres from being washed out from under her.

Finally, at the rut on the outside, just an arm's length from the tree line, Clover turned the bars to the right, let her weight sink into the back of the bike to help her back tyre get traction, and squeezed the throttle harder. The back end slipped, as if it would just keep on going. She gasped with fright
this might be
it
but the back end bit. She rammed on the throttle, threw her weight forward, willing the little bike to soar up the rut and to the final steps in the hill. Vibration shook her body as the back tyre spun like mad, hitting the sides of the rut, the loud wail of the labouring engine echoing around the mountains.

She wasn't sure where she was, and cursed herself for taking her goggles off, but the rain had made it impossible to see with them on. She was still blinking when the ski lodge at the top of the hill came into view. The rut was doing its job, her bike climbing like a champion.

Clover pulled on the handlebars with all her remaining strength, twisted the throttle with all her might the hill from hell was steep, trying to drag her off backwards. At least she could see a little now the fog had cleared. Just two more steps in the hill and, amazingly, her rut was clear. No bikes to stop her, no more obstacles, except for the mud and the incline, to keep her from victory.

A determined roar ripped from her chest. She dropped her foot on her gear lever, changing back to first, let go of the clutch entirely and twisted the throttle as far as it would go. Her motor sang and she and the bike became one, hitting the bottom of the next rise and roosting all the way to the top.

Water flicked off the front wheel, coating her face, as she sped along the flat before the final rise. All in front of her was white, but she could feel the rut, feel her bike beneath her as it powered forward, onto the final incline of the hill, like a tram on its track. So close. The screams of the crowd rang out from the top.

It took Clover several seconds to realise her bike had stopped.

Water was no longer flinging off the front tyre. Her body was still, no jolting as the back end ricocheted off the sides of the trough.

Her mind clicked into top gear as she tried to lift her feet off the foot pegs, to get them to the ground so she could paddle with her legs to reach the top. But her feet were stuck, encased, along with most of her bike, in a muddy bog at the crest of the last step in the hill.

Clover looked up desperately, tears stinging her eyeballs along with the grit and dirt flung at her by this wretched hill. She tore at the handlebars, then rammed her torso against the handlebar pad with all her strength, holding the throttle pinned. Her 250 shrieked with frustration, but the back end couldn't budge.

She let out a loud cry as she gave one last, almighty pull of her legs. Her feet sucked out of the mud. She fell forward, hearing the crack as the peak of her helmet connected with her handlebars. Her ears rang from the force of the blow. She clutched the sides of her helmet, willing the pain and the noise to stop. Tears streamed down her face, biting at the cuts on her cheeks made by branches that had whipped her on the trail.

Clover jumped off her bike, but immediately had to grab the seat to avoid being washed back down the hill. She dug the steel toes of her boots into the mud, dropping forward onto her knees, grabbing the holes in her bike's side plates, to try and pull the back end out.

No movement. Just sounds of suction as the hill stubbornly kept its hold.

Clover cried out, pulled again, her lower back going into a spasm from the exertion.

Each heave only produced the
shuching
sound, like the hill was laughing at her. Having taken her bike prisoner, it was now taunting her.

Clover pulled, pulled, until she knew another effort would cause her to collapse and fall back down the hill. She tilted her head back, cursing at the sky. Her heart shattered into tiny pieces, to be washed down with the rain. Her legs crumpled, and her head hit the hill. Thick water ran over her face. She needed to cough or she would choke. But she didn't care.

The Grim Reaper's icy hands closed around her throat.

She had no more fight. She had given her all and now it was over; her dreams swallowed whole. It was her own stupid fault, she told herself, for being dumb enough to think she could finish this race. She should have stayed in Silvertown, stayed with Dallas, where she was safe, warm, and part of a world so many girls yearned for. She'd been stupid and naive. And the hill from hell would ensure that she would pay.

Clover coughed, to save her lungs from drowning, as she heard a voice. The voice told her to take heed, that all hope was not lost.

And then she heard him.

‘You right, mate?'

This deep, Australian voice chimed with salvation.
It must
be a dream, I'm hearing voices in my head … I must be dead.

‘Oh!' The man sounded alarmed, concerned. ‘You're a chick!'

Strong, warm hands grabbed her under each arm.

She was rising.

Clover spat clumps of mud from her mouth, gasping for air. When her feet met ground, she kicked hard to secure her foothold, flung her arms out to the side to steady her frame. The voice had moved in front of her and as Clover registered its owner, she froze, mesmerised, by his eyes.

Ryder Black smiled at her with such force it hit her like a crashing ocean wave. It was as if his cheeks were actually shining, his whole face joining in. Her limbs regained their power as his eyes, so full of life held her captive. The mud drained from her brain and the pieces of her heart returned to her from the depths of the hill and welded themselves back together.

‘C'mon!' Ryder's eyes didn't leave hers, not for a second, as he spoke. ‘Get back on and I'll give ya a push.'

Clover opened her mouth to answer, but just a squeak came out. ‘Clover! Are you all right? You're gonna hour out!'

Her eyes went wide, and then the shock of where she was, what was happening, settled back over her. ‘Crap Sorry!' She registered his Australian team jersey, and a jolt shot to her heart. ‘You can't help me, you're racing!'

He shook his head. ‘No, doll, we finished hours ago! Now, come on! Get back on and we'll get you out of this.' He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her onto the seat.

‘I can't get help! I have to do it on my own!'

This made Ryder laugh. ‘I had a feeling you were a fiery one! But there's no need to worry, it's acceptable in this situation. Now, just start it up for me.' He swiped the mud from her handlebars, unearthing the starter button. But the bike just spluttered back. Ryder ducked around to the right-hand side, pushed her thigh back and took control of the throttle and clutch. In three firm kicks of the kick-starter he had it going. The sound was joyous, the bike vibrating happily ready to be set free, to finish its task.

Ryder was behind her now, ready to push. ‘That's it, now, GO!'

He gave the bike a firm shove, as Clover dumped the clutch and yanked at the throttle. The bike wailed, she threw herself forward, pushing against the bars, and screamed with joy, as she felt the back end of the bike rise.

Free!

Bits of roost from the back tyre hit her on the back as she crawled the last few feet, paddling with her legs to keep her bike on course, and crept up over the lip of the hill.

She screamed with delight. Excited cheers erupted from all around her, as spectators rushed forward. Ernie appeared, waving frantically, covered in mud, ‘Clover! You have to go, you're about to hour out!' He pointed to two red quick shades at the far side of the field, next to the ski lodge. ‘One minute until you're disqualified!'

Clover told herself to twist the throttle, but her hand didn't respond. Ryder Black was on her mind. She turned to look, to thank the man who had torn her from the grasp of defeat.

A figure, coated in mud, was crawling over the top of the hill.

‘Oh my God!' she yelled at him. ‘I'm so sorry!'

‘No, worries,' he shouted between panting breaths. ‘You, have to GO!' Ryder, too, pointed at the finish line.

Clover was shocked to see that he was still smiling, despite the fact she'd thoroughly coated him in brown slop. His teeth were still white though, gleaming from his muddy face.

Clover grabbed the mouthguard of her helmet and pulled it down, to yell out, ‘Thank you, Ryder!'

Clover gave Ryder one last smile, looked past the rows of cheering fans setting her eyes on the finish line quick shades eased on the throttle, careful not to re-coat Ryder with roost, and took off towards the chequered flag.

From the foot of the winners' podium, Clover looked down at the crazy crowd. She was pleased to see the Australians had joined the Canadians, now fighting the French for the spot closest to the front. Many of the Aussie riders already looked drunk and swung from the shoulders of their crew, gold medals around their necks, swilling beers and throwing their hats into the air, as they blew kisses to the top three women in the world.